Ah, there’s a certain irony here.
My philosophy has always been one of no regrets, no matter how badly things might turn out. Like Lemmy, I’ve always felt I made my choices, I did what I did, nobody made me: you win some, you lose some.
Years ago, when there was all that controversy about Woody Allen and his relationship with his step daughter, I remember reading a (true? apocryphal?) anecdote about how, on leaving his apartment, he was surrounded by reporters, all asking questions. Woody Allen quietened them down and said he would answer one question, but only one, and pointed to one of the eager journalists around him. ‘Tell us, Mr Allen,’ said this young man, ‘is there anything you regret?’ Woody Allen thought about this; the reporters waited with bated breath. Eventually, Woody Allen spoke: ‘Yes, yes there is,’ he said slowly. The crowd’s expectation grew. ‘I regret…’ The crowd gasped in anticipation. ‘I regret ever reading Moby Dick,’ said Woody Allen and got into his waiting car.
Me? I once had the opportunity of meeting Lemmy — not just a brief fist-bump as he greeted his fans, but actually hanging out with him and partying with the band. I turned it down. That’s my regret… all one of it.